Another dusting of snow has hit the neighborhood. Not sure why, but it inspires me to read poetry. I know right, spring snow = poetry. What’s up with that? Maybe it’s holding on to the still, before spring in ernest pulls me back outdoors. Yes, I struggle with productivity once the warm weather hits. I want to get on my bike and travel down route 77 to where the air turns thick with the ocean air or sit on the beach with a book, digging my feat in the warm sand.
I’ve always admired poets. I noticed that once again last Saturday. I was facilitating a writing group at the library. There were many poets in the room. These writers created an image using sparse language in a way that I never can. I can’t help it, I’m wordy.
I’m hoping that by reading more poetry, I can learn to edit myself. To turn my prose into something simpler, more precise. We’ll see if it works!
by: William Blake (1757-1827)
- THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
- Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
- Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
- Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
- The hills tell one another, and the listening
- Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
- Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
- And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
- Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
- Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
- Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
- Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
- O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
- Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
- Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
- Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee